The Worst Chrismukkah Ever
by Silverweaver
Summary: Cocopops, carols and Judy Garland come together to make a memorable second Chrismukkah together for the Cohens 1. Posted in response to the emonerdgirl's LJ Chrismukkah Challenge. [Complete].
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: The O.C. is property of Fox.  
Author's Note: For emonerdgirl who requested the fic and shelbecat who did a much needed proof read for me. The inevitably remaining mistakes are mine. Also for whomever it was who had to clean the till at Boots after I threw up on it.  
_For the orginal challenge, go here: _

* * *

Ryan sat on the floor of the poolhouse, trying in vain to neatly fold the corners of his last present for Seth neatly. If he'd been wrapping something soft and squishy like the Elmo he was giving Lindsay, that would have been fine, but this was a book and it wasn't exactly rocket science. Which was a pity, because these days that was something he might have had a shot at. There was something about dating a physics devotee that made studying a much more attractive pastime. Finally, just as Ryan was beginning to despair, he got the edges tucked in and held them down determinedly as he pulled a piece of tape from the dispenser and stuck it down. Putting it with the CD he'd picked out with a little long distance help from Anna, he tied a silver bow around the small stack and sat back to admire his handiwork. 

Three small stacks of presents for the Cohens, a small matching gift of manicure sets for Marissa and Summer to be delivered simultaneously so that there would be no romantic confusion whatsoever, a sketch pad and pencils for Trey and a photo frame for his mom on the unlikely off chance that she came by the jail anytime soon. A total of eleven individually wrapped gifts in all. They may not be the most perfectly wrapped presents in the history of Chrismukkah, a festivity with twice the good will of normal holidays, but he swore if anyone teased him about patterns not matching, he'd wallop them. He checked his watch; it had taken the best part of three hours. A definite improvement on last year; he might suck but at least he was making progress. Now all that remained to be wrapped was the box containing the simple silver necklace he'd picked out for Lindsay and the dreaded Elmo, staring at up at him in what Ryan felt was a distinctly malevolent fashion.

Feeling his nose twitch, he glowered back as he reached for a tissue from the near-empty box beside him, grabbing one just as he let out a spectacular succession of sneezes.

"Bless you," came Kirsten's voice as he finished his fifth sneeze.

Ryan turned to see her standing behind him with a fresh pack of tissues and a steaming mug of what he hoped was cocoa. "Thank you."

"I know you said you were wrapping presents but it's practically midnight. You should get yourself into bed."

"I know," said Ryan as he scooped up a pile of grotty tissues from floor and dumped them unceremoniously in the trash, "I'm done for tonight."

"You have much more to do?" Kirsten said, looking at the bed in the hope that any telltale shopping bags might be peaking out.

"Yours are wrapped, stop snooping," Ryan said, without looking back.

"I wasn't snooping!" Kirsten exclaimed like an admonished child caught drawing on the kitchen table.

Ryan looked at her levelly.

"I liked you so much better when you were doped out on Nyquil."

"I think I did too; that stuff had a kick," Ryan deadpanned.

"How're you feeling?"

"I'm okay. How's Seth?"

"Doped out on Nyquil. And starting to wish he'd been less of an ass to you last week."

Ryan laughed briefly before breaking into a hacking cough. Seth had teased him last week for succumbing to a mere sniffle and missing the last three days of school before the holiday break. Seth had insinuated filthy things about Lindsay's bedside manner when she dropped by with noodle soup. Seth had commented that Ryan's permanently high temperature made him closely resemble a beetroot. Seth had complained that Ryan was too easy a target for his jibes. Seth had belittled Ryan's chesty cough, seismic sneezing, streaming eyes and death rattle snoring as wimpish, claiming Cohens were made of sturdier stuff. Seth had ignored Ryan's half-hearted warnings of karma. Seth had no idea that the Atwood boys' immune systems were the stuff of Chino legend. Seth had grown up an only child. Seth had never had a brother to share germs with before.

A week later karma rose up and bit Seth on his skinny little ass.

"Urgh, 'scuse me," Ryan choked into his hand.

"What about Elmo?" Kirsten asked, passing him a half-abandoned glass of water from the floor.

Ryan looked over at the fuzzy red monster and felt a thousand times more tired, "I think he's going to have to wait 'til morning. Besides," he added as he took the glass gratefully from Kirsten and took a sip, "I'd like Lindsay to have something that doesn't look like I wrapped it with my feet."

"She's a nice girl."

"Do you think-"

"-I think she'll love it, Ryan."

"Thank you."

"And anyway," she teased, trading Ryan's empty glass for the mug of cocoa, "You kept the receipt, right? So when she hates it-"

"- Hey!"

"I'm sorry, if she hates-"

"- Do you want me to sneeze on you?" Ryan threatened in a jovially stern fashion.

"It's Elmo and it's from you," Kirsten said reassuringly, "What's not to love?"

"Cool. Thanks Kirsten."

"You're welcome. Now go to bed."

"Alright, alright I'm going!" said Ryan, sitting down on the bed and pulling his socks off with his toes, smiling to himself a little as Kirsten's sensitively hidden concern momentarily bubbled through. Scolded for not sleeping enough; there were worse things to be admonished for.

" 'Night, Ryan. Sleep well. I'll most likely kill you in the morning," she quipped as she turned out the main light, dropping the pool house into the soft warm light of Ryan's bedside light.

"That's a comfort," Ryan replied, trying to suppress a yawn. He smiled back at her, "'Night."

"'Night." Kirsten pulled the pool house door closed behind her with a soft click, leaving Ryan alone once again.

Drinking from his cocoa, he looked over at the little bundles of red and gold star wrapped presents on the floor. They'd look great under the whopper of a tree that Sandy had bought home and tomorrow he would wrap Lindsay's presents to join them. Right now, he was going to follow Kirsten's orders and hit the sack. Elmo would just have to wait.

* * *

The next morning Seth sat at the breakfast counter in the kitchen, feeling incredibly sorry for himself. He'd known even as he'd gently mocked Ryan last week that sympathy was probably more appropriate; but this was Ryan Atwood, he of the irritatingly good metabolism and muscles that refused to atrophy in an acceptable fashion even though it had been months since he'd quit his construction job. Watching him shuffle around the house like a consumptive poet was too good an opportunity for Seth to miss. Unfortunately, his stand-up hadn't gone down too well and despite the fact that this was now the new and improved Ryan Atwood (now with extra dimples) he'd barely succeeded in raising a smile. Only now, as he picked at the soggy floating remains of his Coco Pops, did Seth truly appreciate why. 

He felt like utter crap. His head was fuzzy, every time he needed to blow his nose (approximately every 0.25 seconds) he had to ponder the old sensitive sinus-versus-potential nosebleed conundrum, his chest sounded as if he had spent most of his young life down t'pit and his taste buds seemed to be on strike. So, his mother might possibly have had a point that it was cruel to imply that Ryan's husky voice made him sound like Chrissie Hynde, but this he did not deserve. And through it all Ryan had been utterly gracious. He hadn't said I told you so, hadn't mocked the fact that despite his declarations as to the incredible litheness of Cohen, the flu bug had clearly hit Seth much harder than it had Ryan. And yet he'd said nothing.

Instead, Ryan, damn him, had been sympathetic; asking how he was, bringing him spontaneous cups of tea up to his room where he had languished in bed for the past four days. He'd even asked Lindsay to bring over an extra helping of her fabulous noodle soup. It was the behavior of a mature, noble and thoroughly decent young man and they both knew it was driving Seth just as crazy as he'd driven Ryan the week before. It was, in short, a masterstroke of revenge on Ryan's part.

Giving up on the rest of his cereal, Seth stood up and moved to the sink to rinse his bowl, ignoring the wave of nausea that hit him as he did so. Perfect. Yet another delightful new symptom, and just in time for Chrismukkah Eve.

"Hey," came Sandy's voice from behind him as he placed the bowl in the dishwasher, "You feeling better?"

"Not really, " replied Seth as he straightened back up.

"You don't look great," said Sandy truthfully as he crossed over to Seth and put his hand on his son's forehead, "How'd you sleep?"

"Okay. I just feel kind of eugh."

"You're hot again. You should be starting to feel better by now, if Ryan's anything to go by."

"Well, it turns out there's yet another layer of manhood that Ryan's got on me, okay?" Seth snapped, a little harsher than he'd intended.

"Okay, okay," Sandy said kindly, sensing Seth's renewed frustration at the disruption of his beloved Chrismukkah and backing off, "You should go back to bed. If you're not feeling better later on, I'm going to make an appointment at the doctors' for you. It's not like you to be this run down."

"Whatever. But I'm not going back to bed, it's all gross in there."

"Then go and sit yourself down in the den and I'll bring you a mug of peppermint tea. If you don't keep your fluids up then your mother will kill us both."

"Whatever," Seth said again, going into little kid mode. Being sick sucked at the best of times, being sick at Chrismukkah was just plain unfair. "Sorry," he sighed, looking up at his Dad for comfort, "I just…"

"- Yeah, I know. Come here," Sandy said as he pulled gently Seth into a hug.

Behind them, Ryan wavered momentarily before quietly entering the kitchen from outside. Even though it had been the best part of eighteen months since he'd first rolled up on the Cohens' doorstep, he still couldn't help but feel a little self-conscious when he inadvertently stumbled in on Cohen-on-Cohen affection. It was silly and he knew it, but that little pang of guilt at the disruption he'd brought into their lives still flickered bright if given half the chance. Or maybe, he thought, as Sandy kissed Seth tenderly on the head, it was simple jealousy at the unashamed and unrestrained affection the family had for one another.

As unobtrusively as he could manage, Ryan crossed to the fridge, pretending to peruse the contents inside the door as he stood watching them with plaintive envy in the reflection of the window. It wasn't until he felt Kirsten's hand on his shoulder that he realized she had entered the kitchen.

"Honestly, those two," she sighed wistfully, as he was pulled out of his reverie, "It doesn't matter how many times I tell them to tell me when we're running low on juice, whenever anybody else wants some, there's only ever mush."

Embarrassed, Ryan turned around and offered her a smile as he took the nearly empty bottle out of the fridge, "I don't know, mush isn't so bad."

"I'm still campaigning for a pulp free household," said Seth, breaking away from his father.

"And the day you buy the juice, you can consider your campaign a success," said Kirsten as she laid down her bag of groceries on the counter and retrieved a fresh bottle of pulpy goodness, "Until then, this house will continue to come with juicy bits."

"Here's hoping," said Sandy flirtatiously, planting a kiss on Kirsten's cheek as he swiped the juice and poured out four glasses, "I for one love the juicy bits."

"Oh my God, Dad, I'm sick already, please don't make me hurl," Seth protested.

"I don't know what you mean," grinned Sandy, his eyes sparkling.

Ryan shook his head to himself, taking a gulp from his glass. Then again, perhaps there was sometimes a little too much affectionate sharing under this roof.

The new and the old juice finished, aside from pulpiness, Kirsten picked up the bottle and headed to the sink, "All joking aside, if this is how quickly we get through juice in this house, someone else has got to start remembering to buy some every once in a while. At this rate, I'm getting all my exercise just by grocery shopping."

"Say no more. But don't rinse those out," said Sandy, as he stayed his wife's hand, "I'll have the pulp with ice cream."

"If you insist," said Kirsten, wrinkling her nose in exaggerated disgust.

"I do indeed. You ever had orange pulp on vanilla?" Sandy asked Ryan as he offered Seth a Kleenex to stay a string of sneezes.

"Uh, sadly, no," said Ryan, with absolutely no intention of being drawn down that road again. He'd still hadn't gotten over the, "Try calamari rings, Ryan, you'll like them," incident of a few weeks back and was in no mood for culinary adventures.

"Don't!" said Seth between sneezes, "Seriously-! It's -! Just-! Ugh-!"

After seventeen years of parenthood, Sandy and Kirsten had a highly developed sense of puke-dar and knew instantly how to recognize the look on Seth's face that meant he was about to throw up in a particularly explosive fashion. Unfortunately for Ryan, the only person he had developed puke-dar for was his mother and he was totally unprepared for what Seth was about to let loose. No sooner had he had time to wonder why Sandy and Kirsten were leaping backwards from their son, then a fantastically gross arc of juice and coco pops spewed forth from Seth with the force of his sneeze, hitting Ryan dead on and leaving lumpy splatters dripping down his t-shirt and jeans, decorating his arms and and bare feet.

"Oh. My. God," Ryan muttered, trying to suppress the urge to return the favor as the Cohens looked on, horror and hilarity twinkling in their eyes. He looked down at his clothes; brown, warm and soggy with all that remained of Seth's ex-breakfast. Even his mother had always managed to hit the basin.

"Dude, I'm so sorry," Seth choked out between dry aftershock hitches, "That's like the most disgusting thing ever."

"And the most impressive," declared Sandy, trying to lighten the mood as he offered Ryan a towel, "I thought that the projectile banana at CVS was remarkable, but this was a thing of beauty."

"Not now, Sandy," Kirsten admonished her husband, crossing to Seth and rubbing his back gently. "Come on young man," she said turning Seth gently around by his shoulders and pointing him in the direction of the stairs, "Let's get you back into bed."

" 'kay," Seth agreed pathetically, wiping at the stray coco-pops around his mouth and nose that had tried to make the six-foot journey across the kitchen via his nostrils, "Sorry bro."

"It's okay," Ryan answered, peeling off his sodden and stinky t-shirt as Seth shuffled out of the kitchen, "I'm just going to go take a really long shower."

"Or two," Sandy grinned, giving in to his urge to laugh.

"Maybe burn my clothes."

"Bet you weren't expecting that for Chrismukkah."

"But you know what? Still better than Christmas with Mom," Ryan half-joked back, mentally kicking himself as the joke fell flat and the inevitably downcast scenarios jostled for position in Ryan's imagination. There had been no gift from her this year.

"I'm sure she's okay, you know," Sandy said after a moment, sensing his unrest, "I know she's not been in touch for a while, but that doesn't-"

"-Yeah, I know," Ryan interrupted, acknowledging Sandy's platitudes as the good intentions they were with the smallest of equally well-meaning smiles.

"I've got this," Sandy said, grabbing a roll of kitchen paper from the sideboard, "Go shower and I'll make you some of my best chocberry pancakes for breakfast. I'm guessing you're probably not in the mood for cereal right now."

"Sounds great, thanks," Ryan nodded gratefully. Stepping carefully around the puddle on the floor, he shuffled out of the kitchen in the direction of the poolhouse, more determined then ever that this was going to be a good holiday. He could let his mom, his cold, Seth's drop in holiday hyperactivity dictate the festivities or he could take charge of them himself. Vomit or no vomit, Chrismukkah was a time of cheer, merriment, cheesy videos, excessive quantities of food- well, maybe just regular quantities this time round- and he was going to make sure everyone including Seth had a great time if it killed him.

* * *

_  
For those of you who like to humour my delusions of grandeur and claim to be anxiously awaiting more Move On, it's coming..._


	2. Chapter Two

Disclaimer: The O.C. is property of Fox.  
Author's Note: Not quite the fluff of the first chapter, but that was the mandate, so there you go!

* * *

By the time the late afternoon of Chrismukkah Eve rolled around, it was clear to Ryan that his plan to ensure that the Cohens had a great Chrismukkah if it killed him might not only result in his death, but also several of his nearest and dearest. After been dragged along to the doctor's by Kirsten, Seth had been officially announced to be Sick with a capital S, having somehow managed to catch himself a chest infection when nobody had been looking. Although he had briefly delighted in brandishing antibiotics at Ryan as irrefutable proof of his manliness, Seth looked and felt worse than ever and had swiftly packed himself back off to bed with ne'er a complaint nor a whimper. Ryan on the other hand was feeling markedly better, especially considering the fact that he had begun his day by being puked on. The increased need for therapy and urge to shower every half-hour aside, he felt physically better than he had done for days. Now all that remained of his cold was the weird detached feeling as if he'd just been swimming in an over-heated pool and a few stubborn germs that flatly refused to relinquish their stronghold on Ryan's sneeze reflex.

But without Seth he was bored and the more bored he got, the more quiet thinking he did and that was never a good thing around the holidays. The Cohens could sense it and were trying to keep him entertained and peppy, secretly afraid that he might revert to brooding over the Ghosts of Christmas Past given half the chance, but Ryan being Ryan, he couldn't help but feel more than a little in the way, that he was keeping them from Seth. It was dumb, but Ryan's crack about his mother to Sandy in the kitchen had lodged itself so firmly in his brain, that he not only wished he hadn't said it, but also couldn't stop thinking about her and was now developing nicely into a guilt complex of typically Atwoodic proportions. He was even finding himself wondering what his dad might be doing, something he hadn't done for a long time.

Chrismukkah Eve hadn't been all doom and gloom though, far from it. He'd gone for a walk with Sandy down to the beach and had thoroughly enjoyed hearing about his first Christmas time with Kirsten, when she had tried to make a proper Christmas dinner with all the trimmings. Determined to give him a feast to rival the Nana's with a Wasp-ish twist, she'd bought a turkey so big they didn't get to eat any of it until ten in the evening and then ate almost nothing but turkey for a week and a half. Given his experience with the Cohens over the past couple of Thanksgivings, turkeys and Kirsten were clearly just not meant to be.

As nice as the walk had been, nicer still were the couple of hours when Lindsay stopped by. After watching Ryan's progressively kak-handed attempts to try and wrap Elmo, Kirsten had eventually taken pity on him and wrapped it for him. Naturally, Lindsay guessed straight away that this was not all his own work, but Ryan could have cared less as her face lit up in adorkably sexy delight at the little red monster. The necklace, just like her gift for him, was presented along with strict instructions that she had to wait until the day itself to open it up. Disappointingly, this firmly put the lid on Ryan's Lindsay-in-lingerie fantasies, but if they'd discovered one thing that afternoon, it was that they didn't need the right clothing to create the right mood, in fact they didn't need clothes at all. Ryan couldn't have wished for a better distraction. But unlike lamp oil, Ryan's good mood didn't have staying power, mystical or otherwise, and less than two hours after Lindsay left he was feeling more downcast than he had in months and it was clear that staring at the ceiling of the poolhouse was not going to cut it. This called for the big guns.

* * *

Ryan hovered outside Seth's door, listening for the sound of his soft snore that he'd had the delight of experiencing during his temporary residence on the floor last Summer. Hearing only the delightful death rattle that he'd finally shaken off himself, he knocked softly on Seth's door before pushing it open.

"Hey," he said as he padded self-consciously into the darkened room.

"Hey buddy," Seth replied, his voice thick and husky, "Lindsay gone?"

"Yeah. She says hi, hopes you feel better."

"I wish."

"That good, huh?"

"I swear Ryan, I haven't felt like this crappy since I was eleven and had the measles. You had it?"

"Nope."

"It sucks."

Ryan looked at the floor, feeling worse than ever. This was a bad idea. Here Seth was, feeling like crap, on Chrismukkah no less, and he'd come in hoping to be entertained. Because that wasn't at all selfish or Dawn-like, not at all.

"Sorry," Seth sighed as he burrowed himself deeper under the mass of blankets and pillows that enveloped him, "I'm moping."

"Don't worry about it. I know I was the same last week."

"No offence Ryan, but you've not exactly been a ray of sunshine since then either. I mean I know I threw up on you this morning- which, by the way, I can't say sorry enough for even thought the look on you face was classic- but you seem to be channeling Ryan Mark 1.0 and we're on to at least Ryan Mark 3.0 by now."

"You're delirious."

"You're brooding again, like Oliver brooding. Come on," Seth persisted, even as Ryan distractedly galloped Captain Oats across Seth's desk, "Share with me. Admit it, that's why you came in here, right?"

Ryan sighed, "I guess."

"Sit," Seth said, shifting in bed and moving his feet to make space for Ryan, "Tell me your pain."

Normally, Ryan would have run a mile to help Julie Cooper plan a Water Polo Team Appreciation Society Ball rather than sit down and have a Cosby-talk about anything with anyone. But right now, his self-destructive tendency to put up and shut up was beginning to irritate even him. If he couldn't mope his problems out then he may as well talk them out. There was something refreshingly blunt and yet sincerely heartfelt about Seth's brand of tact. And besides; Seth was right. Deep down, they both knew that a captive sounding board was exactly what Ryan had come looking for. Taking Captain Oats for company, he moved to the end of the bed and sat down.

And said nothing.

"Speak, friend," Seth prompted after a moment's silence, "Captain Oats is the only telepathic one."

"Right," said Ryan, turning the plastic horse over and over in his hands. Now that he had the opportunity, he wasn't sure where to start. He decided to keep it simple, "Do you ever wonder what your life would have been like if you'd stayed in Berkeley?"

"Are you kidding? All the time."

"Seriously?" Ryan said, surprised. Maybe this would be easier than he thought.

"Sure, man," Seth continued between sniffles, "Mostly when I was rinsing the pee out of my gym shoes."

Or not.

"I mean really wonder. Like what would your Mom and Dad be doing, would they have had any other kids, that kind of thing."

"Oh brother, you are brooding," Seth teased, before taking in the serious expression on Ryan's face. He actually looked like he might cry.

"Yeah, I wonder," he continued softly. "You know, Nana and Dad, they didn't speak to each other for years."

"Really?"

"Yeah. They had this huge fight when Dad moved out. You know how stubborn us Cohens can be.

Ryan nodded, smiling to himself. Boy, did he.

"Then Nana Wasp got sick and we moved back here. Or you, know to here, for me. Nana Cohen came out here afterwards, to help out and stuff, while Dad got his law career off the ground and Mom bedded down with the Newport Group."

"Huh."

"The Cohen family history is a checkered one, Ryan. So I guess, if Nana Wasp had still been alive, I would have grown up a Berkeley boy instead of a Newport Nerd."

"You're not a nerd, "Ryan said reflexively.

"Sure I am," Seth rebuffed him casually, "I'm gangly, Jewish, I read comic books, I've got a guitar I can't play, a surfboard I don't use and I talk to a plastic horse."

Ryan looked down at Captain Oats in his hands. Seth had a point. Still, there were worse things in life. Before he could reassure him that maybe being a Newport Nerd was no bad thing, Seth spoke again.

"What about your grandparents? You got any?"

"Not really," said Ryan, loosening up a little, "My Dad's dad walked out on him and his mom died before I was born so... My mom's parents are still alive, I think. I don't know, they never got along."

"You ever meet them?"

"My grandfather, once, he bought me a milkshake. I remember the milkshake more than him." Ryan looked over at Seth, and they shared the briefest of smiles. "It was Johnny Rocket's. Good milkshake."

"Johnny Rocket's rocks," Seth agreed, sitting up on his elbows to cough, "We should go sometime."

"Maybe. I always wanted my mom to get a job at one, so I could have as many milkshakes as I wanted. Never did, though."

Ryan's code deciphering itself before his eyes, Seth slipped his arm back into the warmth under the covers. Suddenly, the brooding, the extended hours in the poolhouse, the quietness around meal times, it all made sense. It wasn't just sickness that had kept him quiet, it was homesickness.

Not wanting to push the issue too much, he waited tactfully for a moment, before opting for the open-ended question. "Have you heard from her?"

"From Mom?" replied Ryan, noting and appreciating the escape hatch Seth had left him but deciding not use it, "No. Not for a while."

"When-"

"-Last Christmas," Ryan continued, cutting Seth off, "I thought maybe for my birthday, but I guess she forgot."

"I'm sure she didn't mean to," Seth said dumbly. Even during the wilderness years when birthdays had meant family dinners in lieu of any actual friends to attend parties, it never occurred to Seth that the day wouldn't at least be marked in some fashion.

"She never meant to. She just always messes up. I just thought she might call, that's all."

"Sorry, man. I don't know what to say."

"Yeah, well. There's not much you can say, really. Don't worry about it." Ryan handed Captain Oats back to his rightful owner, "Thanks for letting me talk at you."

"Hey, any time. Besides," Seth said taking his friend from his friend, "I do it to you 365, may as well get your money's worth while you can."

Ryan smiled briefly, filling Seth momentarily with a sense of relief. He'd joked about it earlier, but he hadn't seen Ryan this downcast for a long time and he got the sense that there were still some troubles still lingering in the back of his brooding brother's mind. He could guess what. It was now or never.

"Ryan?"

"Yeah."

"Can I ask you something?

"Okay," Ryan replied knowing roughly where Seth was heading, even before he spoke.

"Tell me to get bent, but what you said last year, was it really like that?"

"Was what really like what?"

"Christmas. You said that your holiday memories consisted of your mom drunk and you getting your ass kicked. You know, before us."

Ryan looked up at Seth abruptly, blinking in surprise at Seth's question, taken aback not by the question itself, but by Seth's turn of phrase; he'd remembered the words exactly.

Seeing the hesitation in Ryan's eyes, Seth instantly regretted his boldness. "Sorry, it's none of my business."

"No, it's fine. It's just… Yeah, pretty much."

"You know, when you first got here; you completely held your own with the jocks and local inbreeds, more than held your own."

"Yeah, well, some of Mom's boyfriends had more practice than I did. Last one especially."

"Was that-"

"- A.J.? Yeah. Wasn't exactly what you'd call a family man. Did a lot of drugs. Also kind of big," Ryan commented matter-of factly, drawing his knees to his chest and rubbing his feet warm, "I hated him."

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-"

"- Seth, it's okay, really. It wasn't all the time and he never went after me with a wrench or anything. Besides, if he hadn't have kicked me out, then I wouldn't be here, so…"

"Every cloud, right?"

"Right."

"But you know, if he ever turned up round here, Grandpa Nichol could totally have him killed. I know you're not the old man's favorite grandson, but if he wants to keep the Newport Group a family business, then he's going to have to keep me sweet, you hear what I'm saying?"

"I'll keep that in mind, thanks," Ryan said, grinning at Seth's warm-hearted dorkiness. As much as he'd never thought he'd ever have, or wanted to have this particular conversation with Seth, he oddly glad they were. Sure, it was awkward, but that was partly because whatever else Seth felt about Ryan's pre-Newport life, it was clear that his curiosity came from a place of concern, rather than being merely idle.

"Mom and Dad; do they know?"

"Your dad does, I guess. I mean, he's never said anything, but when we first met back home, he had a file on me."

"Weird. Having your life documented like that. "

"I guess so."

"If I died of pneumonia tomorrow, there'd be nothing but a few tax receipts from summer jobs, but you, you exist. Like to other people; who don't know who you are. I'm not saying it's a good thing or whatever, the reasons aren't good. But you know what I mean- there are people out there, apart from us guys, who care what happens to Ryan Atwood."

"I never really thought about it like that," said Ryan, mulling it over. It was kind of nice, albeit in a slightly twisted way.

"Maybe I should rent a few subversive from the public library, get myself flagged by the FBI."

"You do that."

"Maybe me and Grandpa could end up sharing a cell together, rule the block, like George Clooney."

"Matching jumpsuits," Ryan said, laughing a little with Seth at the idea of it, "You could hook with my dad and Trey, make it a family business."

"Do you miss him? You never talk about him."

"Trey?

"Your dad."

"Not much to talk about."

"When did he go away?"

"When I was six, nearly seven."

"I guess that means he'll be out soon," Seth replied without thinking, not noticing as Ryan flinched slightly. He was too distracted by the thought of not having grown up with his dad. The idea seemed too horrible.

"I guess, in a few years, maybe," Ryan thought aloud, "I hadn't really thought about it." He didn't see the point in telling Seth he hadn't wanted to.

"You ever visit him?"

"No. My Dad? He's not like your Dad."

Seth looked over at Ryan, wanting to know more, but he could see by Ryan's shift in body language that the subject was closed and he suspected that further probing on his part my result in Ryan taking him up on his offer to tell him to get bent.

"I should go see if I can help out, " Ryan said standing up with an enthusiasm that Seth recognized as being not entirely genuine, "Your mom's probably half-way to a nervous breakdown by now."

"Definitely," Seth replied joining the pretence as he kicked his feet back down the bed, "And I'm expecting a feast tomorrow. After all, who knows how many more Chrismukkahs I have left?"

"Suck it up, Tiny Tim," Ryan teased, ignoring Seth's melodramatics.

"We are so watching A Muppet Christmas Carol tomorrow. I love that movie!"

"Count me in. You should sleep. Trust me."

"Always, do buddy."

With a wave, Ryan left the bedroom and pulled the door gently closed behind him. Alone once more, Seth snuggled down into the bed, his feet warming nicely in the spot where Ryan had been sitting. He was glad that Ryan had confided in him; he should get sick more often. Having gone from feeling like a useless phlegm-filled lump, he'd actually managed to get one of Orange County's most introspected citizens to talk through the crap that had clearly been bothering him and had sent him away smiling. Mission accomplished.

* * *

_The next chapter will be a) posted faster and b) more in keeping with the Chrismukkah spirit._


	3. Chapter Three

_Disclaimer: The O.C. is property of Fox.  
Author's Note: It took a while. I like to think of myself as the tortoise of the O.C. fandom, but that might be wishful thinking. And this isn't the last chapter, so get those piñata sticks ready._

* * *

Ever since his talk with Ryan earlier that afternoon, Seth had been anticipating his good karma to kick in and let him sleep, but if anything he felt worse than ever and despite the hearty combination of antibiotics and cold medicine, he was wide awake. Worse than that, the nausea that had subsided after he'd puked on Ryan had returned with a vengeance, pulsing in waves in ominous harmony with his aching head. He kept his eyes closed, breathing as much as he dared in an effort to delay the inevitable and trying to ignore the muffled clattering noises from the kitchen that permeated the quiet of his bedroom. Five feeble seconds later, there came a mighty crash from downstairs and Seth gave up the ghost completely, lurched over the edge of his bed and threw up into the waiting bucket his dad had placed there. Gripping at his comforter as he futility tried to stave off another swell, Seth felt utterly miserable. Now he remembered why little kids cried when they were sick.

* * *

Downstairs in the kitchen, Ryan retrieved one of the muffin tins from across the kitchen, where Kirsten had somehow managed to throw it in an attempt to butter it.

"You know you were supposed to grease the tin, not send it into space," he teased.

"Oh shut up, " Kirsten shot back, "At least I didn't set fire to anything."

"That was one bagel, one time," Ryan laughed defensively as he rinsed the tin clean, before muttering under his breath, "It's not like I incinerated the turkey two Thanksgivings in a row…"

"Hey! The first one, I admit was a little… overdone, but the second one was meant to be blackened."

"I'm saying nothing."

"It was Cajun."

"It was cremated," Ryan deadpanned as he greased the clean tin.

Kirsten paused momentarily from spooning the muffin batter in to the tins and pointed the spoon threateningly at Ryan, "You know, I have no problems with you wearing this."

"Truce," Ryan said, holding his hands up in the air, waving the greasy piece of kitchen roll as if it were a white flag, "Truce. Whatever it was, it still tasted great."

"Too right it did," Kirsten teased.

"I did a semester of home ec. back home," Ryan began, his cheeks flushing as he realized his slip before babbling on, "I mean, in Chino-"

"- I know what you mean," Kirsten said kindly at Ryan's floundering. She didn't want him to clam up now; it was just getting interesting, "Go on."

Ryan sneaked a grateful glance before continuing, "I, uh, I did this class, which was basically cooking and sewing and I was the only guy. Couldn't let the side down."

"Only guy, huh? That was courageous."

"It was desperation; I was eleven and getting kinda tired of franks 'n' beans three nights a week. Ended up being the best way to meet girls."

"Every girl wants to meet a guy who can cook turkey and sew on a button," Kirsten teased, pleased as Ryan smiled a little between dollops.

"Unfortunately, Lindsay plays the oboe and actually understands Emc2," Ryan lightly, only half-joking, "I think it's going to take more than scrambled eggs and patching jeans to impress her."

"I don't know, she seemed pretty impressed to me."

Kirsten smiled to herself as Ryan's cheeks flushed again and he smiled like a kid presented with an ice cream sundae on a hot day. Clearly, Lindsay had him absolutely smitten. It was incredibly endearing. Kirsten watched as he scraped the last of the mixture together with two spoons, determined to get every last scrap of the batter into the cases. Taking a chance on his light-hearted mood, she took a chance and probe a little deeper.

"What about your brother, does he cook?"

"Trey? Are you kidding?" Ryan laughed, but a little nervously this time, "He never needed to know how to cook to know how to get girls. Although he did go through a religion phase, thought it made him seem deep."

"Did it work?"

"It always worked. But then once he got them they never wanted-"

Kirsten raised an eyebrow.

"- Let's just say it didn't last long," Ryan covered hastily with a lopsided grin.

"What about you? Chrismukkah is an ecumenically religious holiday, if there is such a creature. Open to the best parts of all faiths."

"N'uh, I'm not really into religion," Ryan drawled without enthusiasm, "The Jewish thing's cool though, I like the family stuff."

"What about your parents?" Kirsten breezed, hoping that if she kept it light, Ryan would too.

"We always kind of made it up as we went along," Ryan answered, lying to her as naturally as Marissa did to Julie. How had he let himself get led down this route?

"My mom always insisted on us all going to church, there's a small parish out of town that did a midnight carol service every year."

"Sounds nice. I like carols."

"Mostly I was in it for the oranges. God knows why, I live in John Wayne County, it's not like there's any shortage round here."

"Dad was Catholic, took me a midnight mass once," Ryan replied softly, his guard momentarily dropping as he remembered, "I begged him so hard, told him that I was old enough to stay up and then fell asleep the minute I got in the church. He had to keep poking me. He was so mad, he didn't speak to me the whole drive home."

"I'm sorry," said Kirsten, regretting her curiosity as Ryan fell quiet. She could almost hear his mind working overtime.

"I didn't mind, meant I could sleep in the car," Ryan said, deciding there and then that this was as far a walk down memory lane as he wanted to take right now. Kirsten didn't really need to know that in one of his rare but fierce displays of physical aggression his dad had tanned his hide so hard he'd had to stand up to eat his Christmas dinner.

Pushing the thoughts firmly back down inside his mind, he looked up from his tins of uncooked muffins, each containing six perfectly equal, smoothly domed cakes ready for the oven. Kirsten's muffins on the other hand, were… well, less ready.

"You call those muffins?" he questioned her with a skeptical glance at the unequal lumps and bumps she was passing off as baked goods.

"The proof of the pudding is in the eating," Kirsten said, as Ryan deftly redistributed the batter and smoothed over the tops with a spoon, "Honestly, you're worse than my mother."

"Sorry honey, but nobody is worse than your mother was," said Sandy jovially as he joined them in the kitchen and dipped what Ryan hoped was a clean finger into the one of the waiting muffins and licked it off, "Not even my mother, and that my friend, is saying something."

"She was just a perfectionist," Kirsten clarified as Sandy wrapped his arms from her from behind and kissed her cheek. Ryan smiled and refilled the muffin's crater with a swipe of his spoon as Kirsten rolled her eyes witheringly at her husband.

"Perfectionist? She was a kitchen fascist, all the catering companies in Newport were scared of her. Even the great and terrible Caleb would keep clear when she was preparing for an evening of 'entertaining'."

"Hey, what is this," asked Kirsten, playfully smudging a bit of batter on Sandy's nose, "We're playing 'kick the parents now?'"

"If we are, I'm going to win," Ryan jested, his face falling as his joke thunked home and Kirsten and Sandy's expressions froze in the self-conscious smiles he had privately christened their "Oh crap" faces. Twice in one day; a personal best.

Irritated with himself for having dulled the Chrismukkah spirit, Ryan was immensely relieved to hear the telephone ring and grabbed a dishcloth from the side, wiping over the countertop as Sandy answered it.

"Ryan-" Kirsten started gently, noting his furrowed brow.

"- I've really got to time those better," Ryan quipped, cutting her off as he dropped the cloth back in the sink, hoping Kirsten would let it slide.

"And end up like Sandy and Seth, unable to get through a minute of conversation without at least 30 seconds worth of witty retorts?" Kirsten said eventually, following Ryan's hesitant lead for now, "Trust me, you're better off as you are."

"Maybe you're right," Ryan agreed, taking two of the tins over to the oven, his face flushing with heat as he pulled open the door, "Who needs that kind of pressure?"

"Exactly," smiled Kirsten, slipping her own tins on to the oven shelf below Ryan's, "Besides, another clown in the circus? I don't think I could stand it."

"I don't think Seth's up for much clowning around right now," Sandy said with a sigh as he hung up the phone and set it back on the cradle, "He's been throwing up again."

"Really?" said Kirsten, her expression instantly switching to one of deep concern, "I'll go up."

"It's okay, I've got it," said Sandy as he grabbed a bucket from the cupboard under the sink, "Why don't you and Ryan clear up here and then put the presents under the tree?"

"Okay," Kirsten sighed, kissing Sandy on the cheek as he passed by en-route upstairs.

Feeling awkward again, Ryan started moving the cooking utensils to the sink. As much as he felt sorry for Seth being ill during the holidays, he couldn't help but feel a bitter-sharp pang of jealousy at the Cohen's concern.

The last time he'd been properly sick, his mom was mid-way through a weeklong bender and was so drunk she barely noticed her youngest had spent the best part of three days in the hanging over the toilet, puking his guts up. Even at the age of fourteen, he'd felt so wretched he wanted nothing more than to have his mom sit with him, to tell him he'd be okay. Instead, she had been too pre-occupied by the fact that A.J. had just ditched her for the first time to pay too much attention to Ryan. Predictably, she eventually drank herself into such a stinking stupor that she'd ended up passing out on the kitchen floor, vodka in one hand, cigarette in the other. As if that wasn't humiliating enough, worse still, she was genuinely confused when the ambulance paramedics Ryan had called for her seemed almost as concerned by the state he was in as they were hers. She'd apologized later, when she was on the program again. She always apologized.

And the idea that Seth had to phone in a puking frenzy because the house was so fucking big? It beggared belief. The Atwood house was built on one level and the walls weren't thick enough to withstand the huffing and puffing of a big bad wolf, let alone drown out the noise of Ryan puking his guts up. Seth had to call from upstairs and his parents were falling over themselves to be the first to help. Quite the contrast.

The more he thought about it, the angrier he could feel himself becoming, so perhaps on reflection, it was probably a very good thing that it was Seth calling from upstairs and not his mother from God knows where as he'd briefly hoped it might have been. Now that truly would have been a Chrismukkah miracle.

Busying himself with washing up the pans, he could sense Kirsten's shift in demeanor. Another "talk" was coming; he'd put money on it, this one probably not veiled in holiday spirit.

"How're you feeling Ryan?" she asked, putting the back of her hand lightly to his forehead.

"I'm okay," he answered, flinching slightly at her touch.

"You've gone quiet. Or quieter. Kitchen fascism not withstanding," Kirsten joked lightly, in the hope of raising a smile.

"Really, I'm okay," Ryan said, focusing intently on the pans. He wished he didn't find this stuff so hard. After all, Kirsten was only asking after him, it wasn't as if she was asking for a complete Atwood genealogy, or even anything close to it. He felt like a complete dumbass. "I feel bad for Seth. Never known anyone get so excited about the holidays."

"Can you imagine what he was like as a six year old?" Kirsten stated rhetorically, "He actually got so excited running round the house, he bounced off a wall and gave himself a hernia."

"That's impressive."

"That's Seth. Never knowingly being underwhelmed by festivities."

"Lucky him," Ryan said with an unintentionally bitter snort.

"Ryan-" Kirsten began gently.

"- You know," Ryan cut her off abruptly as he pulled his hands out of the warm soapy water, "I'm not feeling that great. Think I'm going to go and crash for a bit. Do you mind?"

"No, no, I don't mind," Kirsten stammered, momentarily taken aback but covering it as best as she could, "I promise not to destroy the muffins."

"Thanks."

Ryan hastily bid his retreat to the poolhouse, leaving Kirsten alone with the pans and her bemused thoughts. Just when she thought she was getting somewhere with Ryan, that he was opening up to her, or relaxing around them, a non-conversation like this happened and he revealed a whole new level of insecurities. It was like living with a human iceberg.

Of greater concern to her was how quickly his good mood could be punctured; it was all too easy to say the wrong thing and deflate him. God only knows what had gone on in his life before Sandy walked into it. One thing was for certain; she couldn't let whatever troubled thoughts were prompting his noticeably shifting emotions fester much longer, she cared too deeply about him for that.

"Greater man hath no love than he will clean up vomit for his offspring," Sandy wisecracked as he replaced the freshly rinsed bucket next to Seth's bed. Sitting down next to him on the bed, Sandy handed his son a glass of water from his bedside table, "Small sips."

"Thanks, Dad," said Seth, taking it gratefully. He rinsed the acrid taste of bile out from his mouth, spitting into the bucket before drinking a few fresh cool gulps, relieved as his stomach lurched only slightly as he swallowed.

"How are you feeling?" Sandy asked as he took the glass from Seth and set it back on the side.

Seth flopped back on his pillow and closed his eyes, "Like I've just eaten a Jackass omelet."

"Do I want you to translate that?"

"You really don't."

"Well, however you want to put it, you are one sick chick."

"Rooster. Rooster. I may look like the creature from the black lagoon, but I still have my dignity. My manly self is sick," Seth croaked before sighing heavily, "I hate this."

Sandy looked at Seth. Despite his tendency to the hyperbolic, Seth rarely let things get on top of him. Whenever he'd missed time off school in the past, ninety times out of a hundred, it wasn't illness but awkwardness that had made him want to stay home. It took a lot to actually floor him and to do so over Chrismukkah must mean that he was feeling truly miserable.

"I'm sorry son, being sick over the holidays-," Sandy said, running the back of his hand over Seth's hot forehead.

"-Bites the big one?" Seth said, ducking his head away from Sandy's touch as Ryan had done just moments with Kirsten's downstairs.

"-Something like that."

Sitting in the quiet semi-darkness of Seth's bedroom, Sandy watched his son settle again.

"Dad?" Seth asked after a moment, his eyes still closed, "Is Ryan okay?"

"Ryan? Seems so; a little quieter than usual maybe, why? Has he said something?"

"Not exactly. We were just talking about stuff this morning and he was kind of weird. "

"Weird how?"

"Talking about family and stuff," Seth squinted up at his Dad, trying without success to scrute the inscrutable.

"Ah."

"I promise I wasn't prying, and I know you said to leave that stuff alone unless he brings it up, but he did bring it up and he seemed really homesick, asking about if I missed Berkeley so I sort of asked him back."

"I see," Sandy replied softly, the jigsaw pieces of the scene downstairs and Ryan's dispirited mood falling into place.

"And he was cheering up and asking me stuff the Nanas, so I asked him about his and somehow we segued into parents, but I swear I didn't mean to push it."

"Did you? Push it?"

"Maybe a little, but I stopped it before he did and he was acting happier when he went back downstairs. Now I'm thinking I was probably too happy, and I'm a nosy idiot."

"No you're not. It's natural that you should be curious."

"I should have left him alone," Seth shut his eyes again, his raw throat protesting in time with his thumping head in protest against his meandering discourse, "Are you mad?"

Sandy sighed, "No, Seth, of course I'm not mad. I wish I knew the answer to this one, but I don't. I've been working with kids like Ryan for most of my professional life. I like to think that your mother and me have managed to get you most of the way through adolescence more or less unscathed, but when it comes to Ryan, it's hard to know sometimes what the right thing to say or do is."

"He's a stumper."

"That he is. But he's our stumper. And I promise, if something's worrying him, we'll get to the bottom of it and help him out. That's what families do."

"You mean talk him into an early grave?"

Hey, they didn't call me Cohen the Barbarian at the PD's office for nothing."

"No, it's 'cause you also look great in a leather skirt," Seth said, before grimacing at the mental image he'd unwittingly given life to, "I did not just say that."

"You're delirious, you're forgiven," said Sandy, with a grin. As much as he was glad that he could talk over most things with his teenaged son, there were just some stories involving lost bets, frat parties and Schwarzenegger impersonations that were best left unshared.

Slipping the memory loose, Sandy sighed kindly at his son. "It's difficult, I know. The crux of it, Seth, is that Ryan has some issues that sooner or later he's going to have to work through and the fact that he knows that doesn't make it any easier. Having you around does. He's smart enough to know that your curiosity about his life before us isn't just idle."

"I guess," Seth admitted, wishing not for the first time that he'd inherited a little more of his father's lateral thinking and a little less of his wayward hair follicles.

"Okay?" asked Sandy, squeezing the lump of Seth's legs beneath the blankets.

"Okay."

"Good," Sandy reached out for the glass of water and handed it to Seth, "Have another drink, then get some sleep."

"'Kay," Seth replied taking the water and sipping it again before handing it back to his father.

After replacing it on the side, Sandy stood up. Leaning down, he plumped up Seth's pillow around him and then kissed gently him on the head.

"Now sleep. I want you up and about tomorrow; we've got crackers to pull, Muppets to watch and your mother's cooking to mock. It's a three man job."

"And Judy," said Seth, "Don't forget her. We missed it last year."

"We'll have to see," said Sandy as he crossed the room and turned off the lamp on Seth's desk, "If not tomorrow then in the next few days, I promise."

"Thanks Dad. Sorry about the vomit."

"All in a barbarian's days work. And at least you hit the bucket this time."

"I guess," Seth croaked, the corners of his mouth curling upwards a little at the memory of Ryan's horror struck face at breakfast time.

"Shout if you need anything."

"Okay," Seth said again, before curling up rolling over to face the wall.

As gently as he could manage, Sandy slipped out of his son's bedroom and closed the door behind him. Passing down the landing, he caught sight through the window of the poolhouse, where Ryan was pulling the door closed behind him. Stumper or not, even at this distance, his glum body language was all too easy to read. It was clear to see that Seth was right, something was definitely troubling him, beyond the usual teenage boy angst of geometry and girlfriends.

Unknowingly coming to the same conclusion as his wife, Sandy made up his mind right there and then to unlock whatever chains of Chrismukkahs past that were burdening his foundling and hopefully bring piece of mind to Seth in the process. He'd be damned if he'd spent the last six months trying to pull his family back together, even making nice with Caleb for Godsakes, only to have them miserable during the festive season. With fresh determination, Sandy headed down the stairs in search of Kirsten; a plan requiring this much cunning was going to need the deviousness of two.

* * *

_This chapter was originally longer, but it was getting so long, I actually split it up. Anybody doubting the validity of my claim that chapter four is on the way (and with my track record who could blame you?) take comfort in the fact that 2000 words of it is already written. Egotistical, moi?_


	4. Chapter Four

Disclaimer: The O.C. is property of Fox.

Author's Note: Have yourself a merry little Christmukkah, Easter, Summer… Let your hearts be light. Next season, all your rating stunts / lame cameos / love triangles will be out of sight…

**The Worst Chrismukkah Ever: Chapter Four**

If Ryan were ever forced to pinpoint what it was he liked best about living with Cohens, he'd look no further than his surrogate family. But coming up a close second was his bed. Roomy, squishy, warm, made up with ridiculously high cotton count quilt set, it epitomized the feeling of comfort, safety and relaxation that the Cohens and their kindness had given him. After the weirdness of the day, he had been quietly content to make his excuses shortly after the distinctly unfestive, slightly awkward Thai dinner with just Sandy and Kirsten and retreat into its sanctuary once more.

Burrowing down deeper into the fluffy pillows, he pulled the covers round close hoping he would nod off again soon. Moments later, a soft knocking on the door put paid to that idea. Ignoring a second, louder round of knocking, Ryan hyperbolized his breathing, in case Seth, as it so typically was at so late an hour, exhibited his usual persistence and came into the poolhouse anyway.

Silence.

Ryan counted to twenty, with no intrusion from the outside world and only the quiet hum of the air conditioning for company. Just when he thought his night visitor had left, he heard the door open.

"I'm asleep, Seth," Ryan grunted into his pillow. So much for sanctuary.

"It's Kirsten."

As he attempted to rouse himself from his sleepy stupor, it occurred to Ryan that Seth was unlikely to be venturing any further than the bathroom. Suddenly, a flash of worry hit him as he thought about his foster brother.

"What's going on? Is Seth okay?"

"Seth's fine," said Kirsten as she crossed to the side lamp and turned it on. "Can you get dressed? I want to show you something."

"At ten past eleven?" he asked, fumbling for his watch on from his bedside table. Adjusting to the light, Ryan squinted at Kirsten, noting the wry smile that played across her lips, the suspiciously Machiavellian glint in her eye.

"Meet me at the car in five minutes," she said, heading out the poolhouse as quickly as she had entered. "And wear something warm, it's gotten chilly out."

As Kirsten pulled the door closed behind her. Ryan sat sleepily up and reluctantly pulled back the covers, his arms and legs goosepimpling in protest. "This better be good."

"Seth?" You asleep son?" Sandy whispered into the musty darkness of Seth's bedroom.

"I wish," he croaked feebly in reply, feeling massively sorry for himself. In his vain attempts to get comfortable, his bed seemed to have shrunk to the size of a peanut and a very clammy peanut at that. "Did I hear the car a minute ago?

"Your mother and Ryan have gone out for a while," said Sandy as he entered the room, "They'll be back in a couple of hours or so."

"Uh, okay?" replied Seth confusedly, "Anywhere exciting? Should I be jealous?"

"Just a drive up the coast."

"So probably not."

Sandy smiled, pleased to see Seth was feeling well enough to mock, "Fancy spending some quality time with your old Dad?"

"Sure," he replied honestly, "That sounds nice."

"You up to coming downstairs?"

"I think so. I don't feel sick anymore, just tired."

"Even better. Then how about you Meet Me in St Louis?"

"I'd like that," Seth said, his thoughts cheering at the prospect of some one-on-one time with his dad. "I shall go pee and take the next trolley directly."

"A little more than I needed to know, but works for me. Five minutes?"

"Five minutes."

Sandy nodded and left Seth alone in the dark of the bedroom. There was something distinctly fishy about their sudden desire for late night drives and classic movie screenings; his parents were Up To Something. As tired as he felt, he couldn't help but smile as he pulled his comforter around him, bundled up a pillow beneath it and trotted out the door. He loved it when they got devious. With any luck, it was genetic.

"Hey, you're not falling asleep on me are you?"

"No," Ryan answered Kirsten, opening his eyes reluctantly. He shifted in his seat, trying to coax his sleepy body back to the land of the living.

"Good. We're almost there."

Ryan looked out into the darkness, squinting as he tried to make sense of the unfamiliar coastal road. The sea to his left, land to his right. North. So Vegas was out. "You going to tell me where we're headed yet?"

"I told you, it's a surprise," Kirsten said, glancing away from the road momentarily to steal a glance at Ryan.

"Uh-huh."

"You don't like surprises?"

"Depends on the surprise," Ryan responded, unaware as Kirsten's flinched a little at the inadvertent but nonetheless slightly curt edge to his tone. Like holidays, surprises were another thing that Atwoods didn't exactly excel at. I'm sorry I forgot your birthday. Your brother's moving out for a while. A.J.'s going to be living with us now. We're going start fresh in Chino, I hear it's nice. Daddy's not going to be coming home yet. I'm sorry kiddo; I just don't have the money for the trip, maybe next year. Hello there young man, is your father in?

"If I remember right, it should be just round this next corner," said Kirsten, mentally crossing her fingers, as their destination swung into view, "Bingo."

"All I see is a-," Ryan looked at Kirsten quizzically, "We're going to church?"

Kirsten pulled the car off the main road, heading up a rougher track to the small picturesque New England style church and the softly glowing old-fashioned lampposts that illuminated it.

"You know that midnight carol service I used to go to with my mom?" Kirsten said nervously, swinging the car into one of the few remaining empty spaces remaining in the pebbled yard by the church's side.

"This was the church?" Ryan asked. Even now, his ability to be taken aback by just how well the other half lived still surprised him.

Kirsten nodded, "It's a little hokey, I know-"

"- No, I like it. It's beautiful."

Kirsten looked over at him, saw his fascinated face as he studied the church's old-fashioned bell tower, its sloping roof and sharp regular angles, so unlike the Spanish style architecture of Newport. Eighteen months ago, she didn't know kids like Ryan knew words like beautiful, at least, not beyond the abstract. To hear him use it so unselfconsciously convinced her that tonight was worth the risk; this was the boy she itched to get to know, to release from his box.

"Yeah, it is."

"Like an Edward Hopper painting or something."

"That's exactly what I used to think," Kirsten remembered. She pointed down the cove to the south, "If you look over there, there's even a lighthouse."

Following her sightline, Ryan looked out into the darkness. Sure enough, a small beam of brilliance winked out to sea, "Do people live in it?"

"I think so. At least they used to. The Robinsons? Robertsons? I don't remember; they were mostly just church friends of my mom's, not friend friends."

"I always liked the idea of living in a lighthouse. Or a windmill. Course, I'd probably be too chicken to go past the second floor, but still…" Ryan joked with a small shrug and a smile in Kirsten's direction, before retreating again, "I like the quiet."

Kirsten looked over the unnervingly pensive figure beside her and her confidence waned. The brilliant plan she and Sandy had cooked up earlier that evening suddenly seemed to be a chronically stupid idea; a mistake of Everestine proportions. After all, when she was seventeen, it was all her mother could do to get her to come out to one carol service a year and that was awkward enough. Short of wearing indecent PVC clothing and blaring gangsta rap from the stereo, there was not much she could have done to make the evening social equivalent of Chinese Water Torture.

"I'm sorry, Ryan," she bumbled trying to explain, "I thought this, coming out, God I don't know what I was thinking. You've just seemed so up and down lately, today especially, and we, I, thought it would be good to get some time out of the house, especially after spending last week cooped up indoors. Then this afternoon, talking about my mom and the carols and the oranges, it just… well, it seemed like a good idea at the time."

Ryan looked away from the lighthouse, back to Kirsten, saw her anxiety, the way her furrowed brow twitched nervously just like Seth's. He smiled.

"It was," he said simply, "It is."

He unfastened his seat belt and opened the door, "You coming?"

_"I was drunk last night, dear Mother! I was drunk the night before! But if you forgive me Mother; I'll never get drunk anymore!"_

"How can Mom not like this movie," Seth said, from under his mass of comforter, shifting his position so that his head rested more comfortably on the pillow that lay on Sandy's lap, "Judy Garland, great songs and a socially frustrated moppet; it's a classic."

"Because she's a cruel women, with a slush puppy where her heart should be," joked Sandy as Tootsie nagged Esther into performing the infamous Cake Walk with her.

"Like Professor Coldheart," Seth croaked, "I'll get those Fuzzy-Wuzzies!"

"You've lost me."

"Care Bears, Dad. Remember? You took me to the second movie and started my whole complex about chandeliers? Thought they had children trapped in them?"

"Oh, that's where that came from? Always thought it was kind of weird."

"Well, you know me Dad, weird is my middle name."

"And here I was thinking it was Ezekiel."

"Ezekiel is weird."

"And it suits you very nicely," said Sandy, twisting his son's hair between his fingers absent-mindedly, pleased that at the very least, Seth's temperature seemed to be on its way down.

"Gee, thanks."

"And besides, it was my grandfather's name."

"I didn't know that."

"Sure you did, you've heard me talk about Popzekel before."

"Oh, like Pop-Zekiel? I thought it was like Pop-sicle," Seth grinned as he worked it out, "That's so cool."

"We Cohens have always been ahead of our time," Sandy said with a yawn, smiling as a moment later Seth compulsively followed suit. Back on the television, two child stars, one burning brightly, the other beginning to fade, sang and danced for their St Louis audience, oblivious as their California audience gradually joined their song,

_"If you li-ke me, like I li-ke you,_

_And we li-ke both the same-_

_I'd like to say, this very day,_

_I'd like to change your name._

_'Cause I lo-ve you and lo-ve you true,_

_And if you lo-ve me-_

_One lives as two, two live as one,_

_Under the bamboo tree!"_

As the song ended and Tootsie and Esther broke into their cute hat and cane dance, the California two fell back into silence. Snuggling deeper into his blankety cocoon, Seth tried to ignore how glad he was his mom had whisked Ryan away for the evening. Thankful as he was to have him, sometimes Seth missed being an only child and having his parents all to himself.

In the days when Seth was the only adolescent rattling around the house, he'd spent most of his time emo-ing in his bedroom, at odds with the world. It was only during the last year and a half he'd begun to realize how much he took his parents and their relatively normal lives for granted and he couldn't believe that he'd opted for solitude when he could have had their undivided attention.

Yet it wasn't just the one-on-one time that Seth missed, it was little things. Before Ryan came along, his mom bought Lucky Charms just for him. Now the lectures about squeezing honey on to bowls of processed sugar puffs and what were laughably called marshmallows were delivered for two and, Seth noticed, had increased in length accordingly. Or occasionally he'd stumble into the living room and come across Ryan and his dad hollering at ESPN, exchanging theories and jibes about various players' prowess or lack thereof and he'd feel a stab of jealousy. How had Ryan managed to connect with his dad like this when he had not? How dare he?

But worse than the cereal doctrines and the courtside commentaries, Seth pondered glumly, as he his dad twitched his legs, the knowledge that if Ryan hadn't come along when he had, he'd have probably of drifted further away from his mom and dad than he had already. Given how miserable he'd been that summer, it probably wasn't too healthy to dwell on it, but it was pretty obvious pop psychology; somehow having to split the 'rents had made him appreciate them more.

Hell, if he really wanted to play Freud or Jung or whoever, when he got right down to it, maybe that was why Seth couldn't help but push conversations like the one he'd had with Ryan earlier; subconsciously he was trying to convince himself that Ryan deserved a better life than the shrouded one before, that he was worthy of his parents' affections. A wondrously selfish sentiment, possibly, but there it was.

"You nodding off on me?" Sandy asked softly, noting Seth's protracted silence, "We haven't even gotten to the snowmen yet."

"I was just thinking."

"Uh-oh," teased Sandy good-naturedly, "Too much thinking is what is got your mother driving halfway up to Big Sur at midnight."

"Big Sur?" grunted Seth, "Dad, it's a forty minute drive."

"Hyperbole, son. The staple of the Cohen rhetoric," Sandy said, ruffling Seth's hair a little, teasing it gently between his fingers. "What were you thinking about?"

"Nuh, it's okay."

"Okay. You've contracted Ryan-itis, but you're okay," Sandy chuckled to himself at the pun, "Rhinitus, Ryan-itus, get it?"

"Yeah, I think Ryan patented that joke already," Seth rasped, as the phlegmy frog residing in his throat made its presence felt once more and he coughed painfully, "Eurgh, ow."

"Choke up chicken. You okay?"

"I think I pulled something earlier," Seth said, ignoring his aching side as his chest rattled in protest at the workout, "It's okay; think I've hit my Recommended Daily Puking Allowance."

"Well, that's something at least," said Sandy, equally thankful that Seth seemed to be feeling better and that he was unlikely to be on vomit patrol again this evening.

Seth flipped on to his back and looked up at his dad.

"Do you know Ryan doesn't know his grandparents? The alive ones, I mean. Obviously. Knowing the dead ones would involve some serious lifestyle choices and a lot of digging."

"I'm going to put that last comment down to your fever and say yes," Sandy scowled, relieved that his and Kirsten's plans were finally rolling into action, "When your mother and me became Ryan's guardians, we did a little-"

"-Digging?" Seth quipped before he could stop himself.

"Hey, careful," Sandy admonished him, "Background work."

"I know Grandpa Nichol can be kinda of mean and I really don't get why he's not on board with Ryan and everything, but I'm still glad he lives close to us."

"It's good to have family. Even if they can be a gigantic ass."

"Don't say ass, Dad," Seth sniffed reproachfully, "But you know the Nana could totally kick his."

"And has," Sandy said with an unmistakable tinge of pride.

Falling quiet again as Esther wooed her paramour, Sandy could sense Seth trying to detangle the jumbling thoughts in his tired and addled brain. Mindful of the shaky ground they were stepping upon, he prompted him gently.

"Sethulah? What were you really thinking about?"

"I was just…" Seth started, before halting swiftly. He reached down and zapped the television, lowering the volume as he tried to find the way to articulate his thoughts. Looking up at his dad's face, he saw his worry lines creased with concern, sensed his almost tangible frustration. "I know I gave you a really hard time when we first moved down here and when we didn't move back after Nana Wasp died and I'm sorry."

"Hey, that's okay."

Suddenly embarrassed, Seth looked away. "You say that. But I was such a brat."

"Yeah, you were," said Sandy answered honestly, knowing that platitudes were the last thing Seth wanted or needed to hear right now, "But at least you were a brat for a reason. Moving is always hard. And moving to here? It's even harder. And I know I didn't help, with my liberal ideologies and raging idealism."

"I'm not going to pretend that I was happy here, 'cause I wasn't. But it wasn't your fault. And I'm sorry if I made you feel like it was."

"I'm not going to lie to you son, it wasn't easy," Sandy sighed gently, "But we got it."

"God, I was such a brat," Seth said again, with a hint of self-loathing in his voice the like of which Sandy had not heard from him for a long, long time.

"I know. But you know what? I don't blame you. And you could have been so much worse. Your mom spent most of her teenage years shoplifting or partying, I hitchhiked halfway across the country and hardly called home for six years."

"Ryan stole a car."

"That he did," Sandy admitted, privately grateful that Seth had not opted to go down that particular route of teenage self-destruction.

"Your mother and me, what we found so hard to deal with was seeing you so unhappy day after day and not being able to do a thing to help. Having you push us away, not being able to talk with you; it was heartbreaking. "

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. You don't ever be sorry, not about this. Back then, we tried to, that is, we just wanted things to be better… I don't think of either of us realized at the time just how hard you were finding things."

"I was pretty fucking miserable", Seth grunted, half-smiling as his dad's scowl deepened fractionally at the profanity. "This will probably sound really lame, but I just wanted to say thank you for Ryan. I don't think I ever did.

"Well, since you did ask for a little brother when you were eight, I thought it was about time we delivered. Though technically, being as Ryan's older than you are, that makes you the little brother. Unless you go by height."

"And otherwise only just," Seth clarified automatically. "Dad. I mean it, thank you."

Touched by the sincerity in Seth's voice, Sandy stroked his son's matted hair from his forehead, "You're welcome."

His tiredness finally beginning to hit him, Seth yawned and the two of them drifted into quiet, their eyes gravitating back to the television once again.

"Dad?"

"Yes son?

"Do you think it'll work? Mom taking Ryan out?"

"I don't know. I hope so."

"I think it will," said Seth confidently, as he rolled back on to his side, "Ryan's so much smarter than me."

Sandy smiled as he felt Seth settle down again, the tension in his own body dissipating with his son's, "I'm saying nothing."

Back in St Louis, and quite unperturbed by the fact that she was inventing the lamest excuse ever to spend time alone with a guy, Judy's Esther coyly snaffled the boy next door to assist her in turning off the house lights. "It never ceases to amaze me just how dumb this kid is," Sandy mocked as John Truett missed all the signals of Esther's none too-subtle advances, "Kiss her you fool!"

"I love it when he tells her she smells of his grandma," Seth grinned.

"And yet he still gets the girl."

"I should totally try that on Summer."

"Son, I think Summer's great. But I also think she'd kill you."

"Yeah I know. I should tell Zach to try it."

"Hmmm," Sandy pondered. He loved his son like nothing else in the world, but when it came to women, like all other boys his age, he still had a lot to learn about their enigmatic ways. Wisely surmising that much like himself, Seth considered a talk about the affairs of the adolescent heart distinctly unappetizing, he opted for the other staple of the Cohen rhetoric, the non-sequitur.

"You know what?" he asked cheerfully. "We haven't got the fairy lights out yet. We should put them up; have them out for when Ryan and your mom get in."

"Like the theory, but I thought Mom got rid of them?"

"No, if I remember right, she just hid them. You know your mother, a hopeless hoarder of all things from cat baskets to go-go-boots." Sandy eased himself gently from under Seth's recumbent form and glanced around the room frowning as he tried to think where the lights might be stored. "Claimed they need new fuses, but I think she was just thinks they're not "classic" enough."

"Or she's inherited Grandpa's carny phobia."

"Don't even joke about such things, son. One of the things I like best about your mother is how little she takes after her father. I'm going to check the basement; carry on without me."

"'kay," Seth replied as Sandy strode out of the living room with purpose, leaving him alone with Esther and John and their outrageous staircase flirting once more. _"Over the banister lean-ing…_ God, I love this movie."

"I can't believe how tiny they are," whispered Kirsten to Ryan from their pew at the back of the church at the gaggle of delighted children filed down the aisle back to their seats, clutching oranges decorated with an assortment of candies. "Seems a life-age ago."

"Yeah, it does," Ryan replied in equally hushed tones, more than a little envious of the treats on offer as around them the congregation sang another carol. "Do you think they'll be leftovers?"

"Not if I get there first." Seizing on Ryan's lowered guard, Kirsten nudged him lightly with her elbow. "You're not singing."

"Neither are you," Ryan shot back with a puckish half-smile.

"True, but I was before."

"I've been sick," he replied, throwing a cough for good measure, "Couldn't."

"Uh-huh," Kirsten deadpanned, not buying it for a second. "Chicken?"

Ryan's stared at her levelly, amused but refusing to rise to the bait, "No. I just like listening."

Kirsten smiled with a shrug and Ryan returned his attention to the music.

_O holy Child of Bethlehem_

_Descend to us, we "Bwark!…"_

Ryan's glance darted sideways, only to see Kirsten continue with the verse, looking as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. "Never gonna happen," he whispered.

_"Cast out our sin and enter in_

_Be born in us today_

_We hear the Christmas angels_

_The great glad tidings, "Bwark!"_

Ryan gave up.

_"O come to us, abide with us_

_Our Lord Emmanuel."_

As his warm mellow voice mingled with her own, Kirsten slipped an arm round Ryan's arm and gave him a quick squeeze hug, "See, that wasn't so horrific, was it?"

"Guess not."

One bleak midwinter and a silent night later and Kirsten was finally feeling as if Ryan was beginning to relax a little. At the front of the church, the well-meaning yet less than dynamic Minister continued to deliver a message of praisegiving and thanks, which despite her best efforts, was failing to hold Kirsten's attention.

She had to admit, she had been surprised by the tone of Ryan's voice. It still sounded like him, but it had a gentle resonance, a confident quality which didn't quite seem to fit with the teenager who had to be cajoled into singing with a strategically timed chicken impression. As good as he sounded, she still somehow couldn't quite reconcile herself to the notion that her Ryan once did musicals. And as for Snoopy? Kirsten tried to picture him at ten or eleven, black and white face, maybe sporting a fluffy pair of ears and it was just too bizarre; for one thing with all the brooding he'd been doing the past few days, Ryan was definitely a natural Charlie Brown.

Without warning, as if to confirm her thoughts, Ryan snorted sarcastically from beside her, covering it up with a faux cough as she glanced at him in surprise.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Me? I'm fine," Ryan replied dismissively.

Sensing Ryan's good humor had once again dwindled, Kirsten looked to Minister wishing she had been paying closer to attention to his message and whatever elements of were causing Ryan to bristle. It seemed innocuous; the usual Christmas focus of hope, respect for one another, appreciation of health, home and family.

The veil lifted. Of course.

Earlier that afternoon, when Kirsten had been discussing with Sandy Ryan's less than sunny disposition, they had agreed that it would be a good idea to take him somewhere different, somewhere that felt like neutral territory, where he might be able to put aside his inhibitions and take a chance on talking it out. Of course, in the plan, the midnight carol service was intended to relax Ryan, make him feel part of the Cohen traditional festivities, not wind him tighter than a Swiss watch. Truth be told, now that she thought about it, his initial reluctance in the car park shouldn't have been a surprise, but she'd figured once she'd got him inside the church it would be plain sailing. Apparently she'd figured wrong.

Mentally kicking herself, Kirsten wondered how best to salvage the evening. If she let it go and postponed the talk they so obviously needed to have with Ryan until after Chrismukkah, then they'd be no better off than they were earlier. Then again, if there was one thing she'd learned about Ryan it was that he shared her own stubbornness and if she pushed too hard he was likely to shut up completely. Either way, she was in real danger of screwing up Chrismukkah good and proper. As she sat anxiously deliberating her equally unappealing choices, Ryan made one of his own.

And bolted.

_"Once again as in olden days, _

_Happy Golden days, of yore,_

_Faithful friends who are dear to us,_

_Shall be near to us once more."_

Sandy sang along with the television as he hung the lights in a more or less neat fashion across the mantelpiece. "If my dear old Ma could see me now."

"She'd throw latkes at you," Seth mumbled from the couch as he continued his quest to make it through to the end of the movie. His drooping eyelids clearly had other ideas.

"That she would," Sandy said as he connected up yet another string of lights to the long chain that was snaking around the walls of the living room. "Thank God she's in Florida. Though I still can't believe she left New York."

"Uh-huh, me neither. More to the left."

Sandy looked over at Seth; happy to see him so relaxed again after the craptastic time he'd been having for the past few days. Still, he couldn't resist winding him up a little. "Feel free to pitch in at any time," he teased.

"No, no, you're doing great Dad," Seth grunted giving Sandy the thumbs up. " 'Sides, it only takes one to hang the lights and one to criticize."

"Then we're a winning team. What do you think?" Sandy asked as he finished draping the last strand around a seasonal log basket and stood back to admire his handiwork.

Seth opened his eyes and squinted at the display, "Looks great, Dad. Very Chrismukkah-y."

"Why, thank you."

Sandy crossed back over to the wall and flicked on the switch, yelping as the resulting power surge took out the lights, St Louis, Judy and plunged the house into quiet darkness.

Smiling unseen in the darkness Seth couldn't resist. "So I guess they did need to be new fuses after all."

"Your mother's going to kill me."

The five minutes that had followed Ryan's sudden exit from the church had been some of the longest seconds of Kirsten's life. Forcing against her instincts to head straight after him, she waited until the congregation stood for the Coventry Carol and slipped quietly out of the pew and down the aisle.

Kirsten stepped out into the brisk numb air, shivering as she looked around her for a trace of Ryan's trail. Squinting through the dark haze of night, she called his name tentatively, cursing mildly when no reply came.

"Could I be more of an idiot?" she muttered to the empty sky as she headed back to the range rover. There was a flashlight in trunk, if she was going to attempt to follow Ryan's path, she was going to need a little illumination. Still grunting as she unlocked the trunk, she didn't even notice Ryan slumped down in the front passenger seat of the car and the two yelped in a tandem of fright.

Regaining her composure first, she raised her eyebrows quirkily at him. "That's quite a manly scream you've got there."

"You scared me," Ryan said twisting around to talk to her, his heart still thumping solidly.

"You too. How did you get in?"

"I forgot to lock it. Why? You think I shimmied the door?"

"No," Kirsten replied instinctively, momentarily unnerved at Ryan's rare snap of bitterness. Sighing, she shrugged. "God, I don't know Ryan, maybe."

Now it was Ryan's turn to be taken aback by her directness. But as they regarded each other awkwardly, Kirsten would have sworn she saw a flicker of something else behind his eyes. Mixed in with the sadness and the anger and the confusion, there was a delicate specter of gratitude.

"I'm freezing," she said finally, taking a travel blanket from the trunk, "Are you cold? There's plenty of blankets in the back here."

Ryan shrugged one shoulder, his nerves slowly allaying. "Okay."

"Okay." Grabbing two, Kirsten shut the trunk and came round the car, getting into the front seat next to Ryan.

"Thanks," he muttered uncertainly as Kirsten passed him one of the travel blankets, laying it on his knees in an acceptably manly fashion, rather than snuggling under it as Kirsten did beside him.

"I would have come after you before, I just thought you might want a moment or two to yourself."

"Yeah. Thanks. Sorry. It's just everything's so fubar-d."

"You do know that I know what that means, right?"

"Sorry."

"No, it's okay. It think fubar pretty much sums it up right now," Kirsten offered, hoping to warm Ryan into talking. Sighing a little as no response came, she could tell that the iceberg impression was going to be a standing feature of the evening. Clearly, it was time to break out the blowtorch.

"Look, about tonight, I want to apologize -" Kirsten began finally, surprised as Ryan cut her off.

"-No." He looked down, embarrassed as he startled her. "I mean, there's no need. It's me, the same old crap. I mean, I know I've got things to work out. 'Issues', or whatever," he said sarcastically.

"- Yeah, you really do," Kirsten interrupted him levelly, cutting to the quick of Ryan's mannered resolve. "And sarcasm might seem like a good option right now, but trust me, in the long run it's not gonna help a damn."

Ryan promptly looked back at her, attending to her change in tone.

"Look, I'm sorry for making you feel uncomfortable. The second to last thing I want is to make you talk about things you don't want to talk about. But the last thing I want is for you to feel like you have no-one to talk to. And obviously you do."

"I'm sorry-"

"- It's not an indictment, Ryan. I'm just saying, it's clear to me, to all of us, that there's been a lot weighing on your mind lately. It was the same this time last year. I know that Sandy knows the official version and I know you gave Seth another chapter of the abridged version this afternoon and that's great, I'm glad you did, but clearly it's just not enough."

Kirsten looked across at Ryan, trying to catch his sightline, but his gaze was determinedly focused on his fingers as he twisted the tassels edging the travel blanket.

"Ryan?" Kirsten could sense his indecision, even as he resolutely kept his eyes cast downwards. "You can't bottle your feelings up like this. Watching you try, it's heartbreaking."

"I don't mean to shut you out," he stumbled, looking up at her for a split second of sadness. "It's just, it's different with you, you're the only one who doesn't look at me like I'm a three year old who lost their teddy bear or something."

"- Ryan- "

"I don't want your pity, okay?"

"Well, that's too bad, because you've already got it. You had it since the day Sandy first brought you home and I'm not going to apologize for it. You've had a crappy life and I'm not made of stone, Ryan. Of course I feel sorry for you. But I also respect you."

Despite his conflicting emotions, Ryan's heart couldn't but glow a little at the compliment and he felt his mouth crinkle with the slightest whisper of a smile.

"If I'd have been you, after the fire at the model home, trust me you would not have seen me for dust. But you? You came back. That was pretty gutsy."

"Pretty dumb more like," Ryan answered, but without conviction.

"Nah, I'm sticking with gutsy," Kirsten teased.

Matching Kirsten's smile with one of his own, Ryan momentarily refrained from his blanket picking. This could be going a lot worse. "So can I ask you something?

"Sure.

"Why'd you say yes?"

"To what? You moving in?

A nod and a grunt.

"Sandy can be very persuasive," Kirsten said lightly with a wry smile, her own cheeks blushing slightly, "He said you were smart. The words, 'Cocky as hell,' might also have featured."

Kirsten looked over in hope of smile, but was instead met with a further grunt. Apparently, lighthearted was just not going to cut it tonight. Sighing, she tried again.

"I don't know, Ryan. I trust my husband. And honestly, I think a lot of me was just curious. After all, it's not every day your husband turns up with a junior felon in tow."

Ryan nodded slightly. "Guess not."

"Sandy worked in the P.D.'s Office for a long time. Sometimes he'd come home so tired, about this kid, or that kid that he couldn't help, that was slipping through the cracks. He never went into specifics, but I could always tell if he'd lost another one. Something about you got to him more than all the others. He called me from the office after seeing you and he just sounded… defeated."

"Oh," Ryan said softly, cursing the stab of guilt he couldn't help but feel at the trouble he'd caused.

"He never bought anybody home before. You were different; he wanted to help you, so I wanted to help you. Sandy's altruism is intensely infectious."

Ryan nodded slightly in consideration, the discordant whirring of his thoughts almost audible to Kirsten.

"Did you tell you anything? About me?"

"Not then, no." Kirsten said, matter-of-factly. "Well, aside from why you'd been arrested, obviously. You have to remember, not even Sandy thought it was going to be a long term thing at first."

"Right."

Kirsten looked over at Ryan again and made a mental note never to play him at poker. Then again, she felt like right she was doing just that.

"After your mom… well, things changed."

"Yeah," Ryan muttered softly, his heart raw at the memory. "So what about now? Do you know?"

"About-"

"-All the stuff from Chino. About Dad?"

"No. I don't want to know. I mean, I thought I didn't. Just after your mom left, when Sandy and I were trying to work out the kinks to become your legal guardians, Sandy gave me your file. I never read it."

"Why not?"

Kirsten looked out into ocean seeking inspiration for the right phrasing. As hypnotic as it was, the constant blink of the lighthouse was less than forthcoming. This was worse than walking on eggshell; this was walking on actual chickens.

"Kirsten?"

"Sorry," she said, turning back to him. Evidently, no amount of knowing that one day she and Ryan would talk of his wounds and scars was enough to ready her for actually examining them.

Truth and trust.

Turning to Ryan, Kirsten looked at him levelly, the resolve cast across her face the precise antithesis of the trepidation in her bones.

"Before we talked to Family Services, I asked Sandy four questions, told him I didn't want the details. He told me, I left it at that. I convinced myself anything else you wanted me to know, you'd tell me. Or that we'd cross that bridge if we came to it. Guess we're standing on it, huh?"

Ryan took a deep breath. Now or never. "What did you ask?"

"Ryan, you don't have to-"

"- I know. Look, you said that you'd wait until I wanted to tell you. I want to tell you. You're right, I need to talk about this stuff and you didn't drive all the way out here just for the oranges."

"Okay, okay," Kirsten said gently, diffusing the palpably rising tension. "After what your mother said at dinner, I asked if A.J. was the only one who hit you."

"No, he just hit hardest." Ryan answered impassively before adding abruptly, "Hard enough, before you ask. What else?"

"If you'd ever used drugs."

Ryan blinked. "But you still- I mean, you didn't mind?"

"Of course I mind, you're sixteen years old and it's dumb and illegal. But everything considered, I'm not that surprised. Both you and Seth are smart enough to know that if we caught you dabbling you'd hit graduation before you saw daylight again, even if it was only mushrooms or pot."

"I never really liked it that much anyways," he said truthfully. "Too expensive for a start."

"I'd have preferred a moral impetus for resisting, but that'll do," Kirsten replied, her mouth crinkling at the corners.

"What else?"

"If you had any allergies. My cooking is bad enough without potentially poisoning you."

"Nutmeg. And I could live without pollen, but it's fine. What else?"

"Oh, that was it, I think," Kirsten said lightly, lying through her teeth and ardently hoping Ryan wouldn't notice.

Ryan noticed. "You said four questions," he stated bluntly, his jaw set.

"I meant three."

"Please don't lie to me," he whispered. "I know there was something else. I just want us to be honest."

This time it was Kirsten who felt unable to meet Ryan's gaze and she cast her eyes downward, ashamed of her cowardice even as she did so. "You know what else, Ryan. I asked if there had been anything… more than hard hitting."

"Trey would have killed anyone who tried that. So would I. So would Mom."

"I believe you." Kirsten replied sincerely, forcing herself to look at Ryan, despite the sickness she felt inside. The very idea that such a history could be a possibility for someone she loved so deeply was beyond horrific. "It's why I didn't want to tell you. I wish I'd never asked in the first place."

"And I wish you hadn't have to. But I get why you did."

"I didn't want to know because I was afraid it would be horrible. Not horrible for you, horrible for me to know about it. I knew it would be easier just to let Sandy deal with it all if it ever came up. After all, he was the one with all the experience with this kind of thing. So I chickened out."

"I get it," Ryan answered after a moment, the slight crack in his voice belying his hurt.

"I was wrong." Kirsten replied, trying to find the right words to explain her motivations without justifying them. "I think even as late as this time last year, I still thought your mom would come back for you. It took me far longer than it should have to actually realize that I didn't want her to. I never guessed then how much I'd care about you."

Unsure of what to say, Ryan found his gaze drifting back to the lighthouse like Kirsten before him. "I still want her to," he said finally, the words tumbling out of him like tears. "I wish I didn't, but I can't help it. I thought this year would be different; but it's worse. I feel guilty for being homesick for a home I never had in the first place. But it's the holidays, you know? She should be here."

"I know." Reaching across to him for the first time, Kirsten wrapped Ryan's tightly clenched fist in her open hand. Still fixated on the flittering beam of the lighthouse, Ryan accepted the gesture, taking it in his and gently clutching her thumb.

"Sometimes I hate her so much. I never needed her to be rich, or to drive the nice car, live in the best neighborhood, or to stand by my Dad, or God, even be sober for five minutes, I just needed her to be there. To know, that just _once_, that Trey and me came first, you know? But we never did. There was always something else, drugs, dead-end jobs, dead-beat boyfriends, drink, just always something else. And I think about that and I wonder why I don't hate her more."

"So why don't you?"

Ryan sighed and slumped against the door, before answering with a smile and a shrug.

"Because she left me with you."

Kirsten and Ryan pulled into the driveway just as the first peeks of dawn were beginning to prickle through the dark. Less than amused at finding the house powerless but more so by the sight of Sandy and Seth stretched out and sleeping in the living room, Kirsten furnished Ryan with a flashlight from the kitchen.

"I think there's been more than enough drama this holiday without having you pitch into the pool."

"Right," Ryan smiled, knocking the flashlight twice against his head. "Not really in the mood for an early swim."

"Indeed."

"You know, you can always stay in the big house."

"I know. But there's no place like home."

"Ain't that the truth."

"Thank you," said Ryan, his eyes shining. Stepping forward, he reached out uncharacteristically to his surrogate mother and hugged her close, speaking softly into her back, "For taking me into yours."

Kirsten gripped him tightly. "It's always been your home, Ryan. You just haven't always lived here."

By the time Ryan stumbled into the house in the morning, it was almost afternoon and by early evening, the power now reinstated and freshly fused fairy lights twinkling merrily, they sat down to lunch. Seth had shown how much better he was feeling by attacking his turkey and trimmings with gusto and keeping it down, which he promptly declared a Chrismukkah miracle. Having discovered the previous year that donning the paper hat concealed inside in his cracker was not an optional extra, Ryan had come up with plan B, which he successfully executed by 'accidentally' setting fire to it. This, Seth declared, was a Chrismukkah tragedy, but he let it slide when Lindsay phoned Ryan with seasonal greetings and switched to merciless teasing instead, which proved to be just as much fun and required no accessories.

After dozing their full bellies away with the annual screening of The Muppet Christmas Carol, it was finally time for gifts. Sandy and Kirsten had outdone themselves and there were CDs, DVDs, books and clothes for both teenagers. The parental contingent didn't do too badly either and Kirsten was delighted as she finally unwrapped her present of Nigella Lawson's "How To Be A Domestic Goddess" from Ryan.

"Not that you need help, of course," he said with mock sincerity.

"Of course," said Sandy, as he handed Kirsten an extra special gift from him. So special, in fact, that she went quite pink and refused to take it out of the box. Sandy grinned deviously as she settled the box on the floor and herself on her his lap.

"You like it?"

"Very much. Maybe when we're done with presents you could slip a sable under my tree?" Kirsten thanked him gratefully, intersected with a kiss passionate enough to embarrass any in the room who was not an active participant.

"Officially, I'm far too innocent to have any idea what that means, but unofficially, I'm totally willing to go with it," grinned Sandy like the proverbial cream brandishing cat.

"Seriously, do you guys want me to start vomiting again? Because this is getting the juices burning," Seth protested.

"Here," said Ryan, silencing his moaning with the last of the presents he'd bought him, "Happy Chrismukkah."

"Another for me?" questioned Seth even as he pulled at the neatly corners that had caused Ryan so much trouble to reveal the smart leather bound book. "The Railway Children?"

"It's not just for kids."

Seth smiled, knowing a good opportunity to tease Ryan when he saw one. "No, it's also for people in the 1900s, who use words like yesteryear and call their parents father and mother."

"You do that," Ryan stated pointedly as Seth flicked through the covers.

"In an ironic fashion, it's completely different."

"It's a classic and you can't be my friend until you've read it."

Recognizing the deeper significance of Ryan's words, Seth dropped the raillery and offered him a half hug.

"Then I shall start it today. Thanks bro."

"You're welcome."

"The Railway Children, huh?" said Sandy as he took from Seth and leafed through the pages, "I haven't read this in years. I'm guessing you can relate."

"Something like that," Ryan replied, smiling unselfconsciously at him and Kirsten. "I figured being as I'm getting through all my issues with my mom, figured we may as well get a head start on all my issues with my Dad."

"Sounds like fun."

"Count me in," Seth chirruped, before breaking into a coughing fit, "You know assuming I don't succumb to this vile pestilence first.

"Aw poor baby," said Kirsten sweetly, ruffling Seth's hair spiritedly.

Ducking away from Seth as he swung out of his mother's reach, Ryan laughed. Twenty-four hours ago, he'd been mentally preparing himself for what he was sure would be The Worst Chrismukkah Ever. But now it was here, being here, being home with the Cohens, it felt like the start of something. Like family. And if he was right, then maybe, just maybe this Christmas would mean something more.


End file.
